She tried calling Grandma Edith’s mobile phone, but as it often did, it went straight to voice mail. There was nothing to do now but wait for her return. As she turned onto the rue Buirette, she reminded herself that Grandma Edith lived alone and obviously went out by herself all the time. Surely there was no reason to worry.

Back in the suite, she grabbed a book from her suitcase—a mindless thriller she’d picked up at the airport in New York—and settled onto the sofa in the living room to wait. She had checked her emails, scrolled through a few news stories on the New York Times website, and read the first few chapters of her book when there was a knock on the hotel room door. Liv sighed in relief; her grandmother was notorious for misplacing things and had probably lost her room key. Liv got up and swung the hotel door open, fully expecting to see Grandma Edith rummaging around in her purse, back from her mystery errand.

Instead there was a man there, leafing through a weathered leather briefcase. He looked up with a smile, and his forehead wrinkled in confusion when he saw her. “Oh, excusez-moi, ce doit être la mauvaise chambre,” the man said quickly, shoving some papers back into his bag as he began to turn away.

Liv quickly translated the French in her head; she was better at understanding than she was at speaking. “Attendez! Um, cherchez-vous ma grand-mère? Edith Thierry?”

“Oui.” The man looked at her more closely, then his eyes lit up. “Wait, you are Olivia?” he asked, switching seamlessly to English. “But of course you are Olivia! Your grandmother has shown me many pictures.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I should have introduced myself straightaway.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Julien. Julien Cohn.” He was about Liv’s age, maybe a few years older, with thick, gray-flecked dark hair that looked like it needed to be trimmed, hazel eyes framed by laugh lines, and a strong jaw dusted with salt-and-pepper stubble.

Liv shook his hand. “And how do you know my grandmother?”

“She is a client of mine. I am here to drop off some paperwork she requested.”

“Paperwork? What kind of paperwork?”

“Well, I am one of her attorneys. She mentioned she would be arriving today, and I arranged to come by this afternoon, but perhaps she forgot.”

Liv just looked at him. “But why does my grandmother have an attorney in Reims?”

“I suppose that’s a question you’d have to ask her.” Julien’s smile was almost charming enough to distract her from the mystery of his visit.

“Well, you can leave the papers with me if you want. She should be back soon.”

Julien frowned. “I’m terribly sorry, Olivia, but I cannot. They’re sensitive papers; you understand.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” She hesitated, a little stung. “And it’s Liv.”

“Pardon?”

“I go by Liv.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” There was that smile again. “Your grandmother has called you only Olivia.”

Liv rolled her eyes. “She refuses to recognize nicknames. She says they’re for children and pets.”

Julien laughed. “Yes, that does sound like your grandmother.”

“You know her well?”

“I do. She’s been with my family’s firm for, oh, seventy years. Not that I’ve been around that long, of course.”

“Seventy years?” She blinked at Julien, completely lost. “Here in Reims?”

He nodded and raked his left hand through his hair. It was Patrick Dempsey hair, John Stamos hair, the kind of hair normal men didn’t get to lay claim to. In the brief silence that followed, Liv found herself glancing at his ring finger as he lowered his hand. His wedding band was thick and gold, claiming him for someone else. She looked up and realized, to her embarrassment, that he was watching her—and that he had clearly noticed what she was doing. He smiled slightly, and she could feel her face heating up.

“Well,” he began at the same time she said, “So . . .”

They both laughed, and Julien reached out to shake her hand once again.

“I was just going to say that it was nice to finally meet you, Liv,” Julien said, taking a step back. “I’ll look forward to perhaps seeing you later in the week.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’re staying very long.”

“Vraiment?” His forehead creased in confusion. “Are you sure? Because I think your grandmother might have a different idea in mind.”

nine

SEPTEMBER 1941

INèS

The harvest was about to begin, and all of Champagne was abuzz. The grapes this year appeared to be merely average in both quality and quantity, but that was an improvement over the previous year, which was cause for celebration. Beyond that, though it had begun to seem as if Herr Klaebisch’s primary purpose as weinführer was to make the lives of the Champenois miserable, he had come through on at least one count: returning a few hundred able-bodied men from labor camps to the vineyards, where they would assist in the harvest and the wine production. De Vogüé’s argument that the 1941 vintage would be as poor as the previous year’s without enough workers had apparently succeeded.